


Turning on the Heat

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Adoribull - Freeform, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Attraction, Banter, Bdsm etiquette, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Canadian Shack, Cold Weather, Companionable Snark, Contrived Premise, Control, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Homosexuals Canoodling, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Lavellan doesn't get paid enough for this shit, Light Masochism, M/M, Obedience, Past Bullavellan, Past Iron Bull/Male Lavellan, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Play, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sharing Body Heat, Slight Nichtophobia, Slight claustrophobia, Traumatized Neighbor, Tropes, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: When your elderly furnace quits mid-winter and you need help fast, who ya gonna call?Why, your best friend’s boyfriend’s ex-lover, who happens to be an electrician, of course! Whoelse?OR: Dorian Pavus gets locked in a freezing-cold cellar all night, with a busted furnace, a ridiculously distracting and flirty handyman, and very little light . . . but also with far more warmth andheatthan he would ever have expected.





	Turning on the Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts), [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU, fluff, banter, kink-negotiation, smut, and little redeeming value. Um, warning for time spent locked in a semi-enclosed space? Also, as usual, sorry about the shitty title. QUIT JUDGING ME.

“Well,” Dorian’s best friend’s perpetually stoned boyfriend, Asa Lavellan, decides from the haven of the living room sofa—where he’s lounging in nothing but saggy socks, threadbare boxers, and one of Felix’s large, old rugby shirts—his pupils as big as small planetoids. Dorian, just back from canvassing most of the chilly building despite prior knowledge of what answers he’d receive upon doing so, huffs. “It could always be worse.”

 

And with that pronouncement, Asa nods, taking a slow, ponderous pull off his small, blue and green pipe. The flat that Dorian shares with Felix—and with Asa . . . Dorian supposes he _must_ include the other man, at this point, even though _Asa_ ostensibly shares a dorm room on-campus and has done for the three and one-half years he’s been drifting through his undergrad studies at Uni—smells indelibly of marijuana no matter how much Dorian cleans and Febreezes the place from furniture to walls. And it has done for the better part of a year.

 

Felix, for his easy-going part, couldn’t care less about the lingering, rank-green scent or the fact that they’re not likely to get their cleaning deposit back, at this rate. His feeling on the matter is that Dorian cares enough for any ten people.

 

Such a _laissez-faire_ attitude and its accompanying shrug is hardly surprising. This is hardly the first time Dorian’s cared about valid concerns which should, but don’t, bother both of them, even when it certainly does affect both of them. Such is the pattern between himself and Felix, and has been since the pervasive sickliness of Felix’s childhood was slowly grown out of. When they were small, it was rather the reverse: _Dorian_ was the carefree, rambunctious impulsive child who was always in some sort of scrape or trouble. Dear, sickly, careful—cossetted— _Felix_ was always looking on enviously, anxiously, yet always ready to come to Dorian’s defense or even tell a few greyer-than-white lies on his behalf.

 

And now, though the latter hasn’t been necessary since they were seventeen, when he and Felix lied to Dorian’s parents about where he’d actually spent an entire weekend—at the flat of a tall, dark, and devastating Romanian grad student, and _not_ at one of the many sleepovers he and Felix had indulged in since their inseparable small boyhood—Dorian feels his debt keenly. He still feels the weight of all the many tiny, not-so-tiny, and quite-frankly-large favors and kindnesses Felix has done for him over the twenty-one years of their friendship.

 

Felix, of course, noble and altruistic sod that he is, is doubtlessly not even keeping track!

 

Nevertheless, Dorian _is_ , and that’s enough. Thus, though it’s really only a middling start, he supposes putting up with Felix’s semi-exasperating taste in lovers for the past thirteen months is still a firmer return on those kindnesses than the several fairly easy weeks Dorian had spent tutoring Felix mid-freshman-year, regarding his Literature requirement.

 

And, anyway, Asa’s not a _horrible_ sort. Not at all. Rather intimidatingly intelligent, if astonishingly unmotivated. Incredibly kind, if habitually thoughtless. _Vexingly_ attractive— _pretty_ , with that shaggy, fiery mane, the perfectly peachy complexion, those adorable freckles, and the vivid, bottle-green eyes—if constantly disheveled and rumpled. Brilliant, in his own fashion, but terribly scattered. And, of course, he’s almost always stoned.

 

He’s not at all _Dorian’s_ sort of man, neither physically imposing, rakishly dangerous, or inherently commanding, but Dorian can certainly see the appeal for Felix, even besides Asa’s pretty face and easygoing nature. There isn’t a better, gentler heart and soul in all of Creation than Felix Alexius and, flaws aside, Asa Lavellan seems to be caring for that heart and soul impeccably. _Cherishing_ it. And Felix has bloomed in the past year in a way even Dorian’s insistent nagging and encouragement hadn’t achieved in the two decades prior.

 

For all his bitching about and judging of the man’s idiosyncrasies, Dorian quite _likes_ Asa Lavellan. Likes that he’s been so transformative and wonderful for once-unsure, demure Felix, and likes Asa simply for his strange, meandering, genuine self. He’s one of very few people Dorian’s met—actually, there’s really only Felix, besides—who’s simply kind and caring because he has no instincts to be _otherwise_. And it’s that innate goodness, which is apparently spirit-deep, that makes Dorian’s occasional gripes regarding his best friend’s boyfriend more about Dorian’s own need to snipe and snark, than about any real animus for said boyfriend.

 

 _He’s a decent and an affable fellow_ , Dorian grudgingly decides shivering in the pervasive chill as he glares at a seemingly unaffected Asa. Not the first time he’s had the realization, but this is the first time he’s articulated it so plainly, and admitted to himself that he thinks the man is more than an amiable, tolerable nuisance. He’s important not just because he’s _Felix’s lover_ , but because _Asa Lavellan_ is a worthwhile person.

 

It’s in this spirit of acceptance and even appreciation that Dorian does _not_ snatch Asa’s no doubt full pipe and disposable lighter, and toss them out the window, like he had that time last summer. No, instead, he counts to six, then sighs, and adds another fourteen seconds to that, while watching the other man hold in the smoke. His lung capacity, if nothing else, is rather impressive. Dorian’s glad, if for no other reason than that Felix, smart man that he is, has no doubt made use of this delightful talent.

 

“Worse. Right. Of course. _Everything_ can _always_ be worse,” he says with terse, listless agreement, crossing his arms partially to keep his hands warm, but mostly to keep them out of trouble. Surely, if he tossed Asa’s pipe out the window—the same one he’d tossed months ago, in fact, and which was retrieved with barely a scratch on it—it would likely stay out there until some passerby claimed it. Or until Asa’s pouting and puppy-eyes goads Dorian into fetching it . . . in other words, when Hell hosts the winter Olympics.

 

Almost certainly the former though, since Felix is currently off in Munich until Sunday evening, with his rugby team, showing the Bloody Huns, in Dorian’s father’s carelessly inconsiderate words, how it’s _really_ played. (Dorian is both rueful and resigned that Halward Pavus follows _Felix’s_ rugby career as closely as Felix’s father follows Dorian’s _academic_ career. But he can’t deny that somehow, the worthless and frail child Halward had disdained as his son’s chosen companion, has turned into the sort of man’s man Halward’s given up hoping his only son would be.)

 

“Stoic platitudes aside,” Dorian continues evenly and remarkably sans teeth-chattering, considering the creeping chill of the flat, “do you suppose it could honestly get any worse than the block’s ageing, temperamental furnace dying one week into the coldest February in over half a century?”

 

“Mm,” Asa hums and slowly lets out smoke.

 

“Do elaborate.” Despite the temperature of the flat which Dorian can _feel_ steadily plunging, Asa still seems enviably not bothered in just the rugby shirt, boxers, and socks. Dorian’s wearing _layers_ and had been even before the damned furnace spat out its last, grudging bit of heat. He’s even considering putting his gray Burberry coat on over his jumper, button-down, and undershirt.

 

“Well . . . the block could always be attacked by velociraptors that can turn doorknobs or sharks in tornadoes, or . . . _somethin’_ bloody eerie, like that. I dunno. I think either of those’d be _much worse_ than a broken furnace,” Asa opines solemnly, with a lazily indifferent shrug. But when Dorian merely blinks and gapes at him, he giggles, his eyes glazed and his cheeks bright pink. “You’re a bloody _beautiful_ man, Dorian, but you look like a bloody _carp_ when you do that!”

 

Asa mockingly mimics Dorian’s gape, then chortles, before sucking in more odiferous smoke. With a sigh and a shake of his head—which could do with a good woolen cap, even though that’d dishevel Dorian’s always-perfect hair—Dorian finally rolls his eyes and sits regally in the overstuffed chair to the right of the sofa. Possibly with a huffy-ish, mostly unintended sort of flounce, if Asa’s intensifying chortles are a clue.

 

“Really, you have all the maturity of a drunken toddler,” he says, sniffing and recrossing his arms. Asa’s amusement lightens into sporadic giggles once more as he lights and takes a long pull off his pipe. This time, it’s nearly two minutes before he speaks again, thin plumes of smoke accompanying his words.

 

“Oh, c’mon, Dorian . . . don’t frown, so . . . you’ll get lines!”

 

Before he can stop himself, Dorian’s right hand immediately flies to his face, which is frozen in a rictus of faint horror. Then his expression settles into frostiness that could give February a run for its money. “Have I mentioned lately what an unqualified joy you are to have around, Lavellan?”

 

Asa is the one to sigh and roll his eyes, now. “Listen, there’s no need to get snide with me, Mr. Pavus—especially since _I_ just came up with the solution to our problem with the furnace.”

 

Dorian’s hand drops back onto his chest, his brows raised doubtfully. “I see. And where exactly are you keeping this brand-new furnace and the technician who’ll install it? In yours and Felix’s bedroom?”

 

Asa snorts. “Not the solution I was thinking of, my dear contrarian.”

 

“Well, if you’re thinking that we could even reach our charming skinflint of a landlady by phone before spring, let alone get her to schedule a repair person to fix _or_ put in a new furnace—” Dorian drones on, a bit peeved that he even has to. After all, Asa’s been semi-living here for long enough to know that Miranda Abney is one bare step above slumlord.

 

“Nah, nah,” Asa dismisses easily, flopping one long, effortlessly graceful hand at Dorian. “You’re getting colder—figuratively, as well as literally. My actual thought was we could call someone who knows their way around that sort of thing, ourselves. Have them look it over and do what they can to keep it going until spring has sprung.”

 

“Even assuming I were willing to pay out of pocket for something that should be taken care of as part of the rental agreement,” Dorian begins, huffy once more, but Asa holds up his free hand in a halting gesture.

 

“Just so happens, that won’t be necessary, nah-nah,” he reassures Dorian with a crooked, certain smile that, like Asa’s smoke-hoarse voice, isn’t at all reassuring. Even from this distance, Dorian can tell that those green eyes are now all loopy-inky pupils in pink sclera. And Asa’s next words are slurred, singsong coos in an assumed Mancunian burr. “ _Naaaaaah_ . . . don’ worry, mate, don’ worry. I _know_ a fella. . . .”

 

“ _Eugh_ ,” Dorian groans, closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and letting his already tired head flop back in the chair—only to jerk back upright instantly. It seems he’ll need the woolen cap, after all. Even the furniture upholstery is bloody freezing!

 

#

 

When Dorian finally agrees to see about this _fella_ , Asa merely smirks and smokes, then giggles for almost ten minutes before finally struggling to his feet, all lean, willowy, wobbly grace. His expression has gone pouty and brooding, though.

 

“Don’ ‘member his mobile number off the top of m’head,” he mumbles, shuffling around the coffee table, toward the kitchen. Dorian doesn’t even sigh. His diaphragm is already exhausted of doing so and it’s barely afternoon.

 

“What a shame. I suppose we shall have to freeze to death, after all,” he deadpans, and Asa makes a strange sound that’s not quite a grumble, not quite a whimper.

 

Then, a moment later, he course-corrects for his and Felix’s room en route to the kitchen, and makes another sound: this one of muzzy-headed epiphany. It even sounds a bit like: _Eureka!_

 

Or, possibly more like: _Ah-OOOOH-gah!_

 

“His mobile’s in _my_ mobile. And _my_ mobile’s on Felix’s night table,” Asa explains, his head bobbing to some music only _he_ can hear. Considering the other man’s taste runs to Phish, The Grateful Dead, and other bands that one has to be high or hallucinating to enjoy, Dorian can only thank goodness for small favors. “Right back.”

 

“Oh, take your time. Don’t rush on my account,” Dorian drawls, still at his frosty leisure in the overstuffed chair.

 

After a few minutes of crashing and muffled swears coming from Felix and Asa’s bedroom, and finally an unmistakable tinkle of breaking glass—probably one of Asa’s tall, ridiculously byzantine bongs—Asa emerges, holding and waggling his mobile. It’s a flip-phone that’s so clunky and ancient, it makes Dorian’s soul hurt.

 

“Eugh,” he groans once more, shaking his head. By the time Asa’s sat back on the sofa again, Dorian’s once more composed. He watches Asa do _whatever_ it is one does to access contacts in a bloody flip-phone, with ponderous, exaggerated care. Dorian is unwillingly fascinated. He hasn’t even _seen such a device in use_ since he was twelve.

 

Finally, Asa makes a muddled, triumphant noise and puts the phone to his ear, bobbing his head once more to his godawful, imaginary music, until the line engages.

 

“’Lo, Jamie!” he enthuses, giggling again. Then harder, when the person on the other end, _Jamie_ , replies. “Oh, you! You were _not_ just thinking about me! You’re bloody _incorrigible_ , you are. . . ! Ha! Save your cheesy chat-up lines for . . . _no_! You know very well I’m a one-bloke-man . . . well, since . . . a long time ago! At least a year! You _have_ met Felix quite frequently, you know!”

 

Dorian refrains from commenting on that, but _does_ roll his eyes.

 

“Anyway, I didn’t call to flirt and be flattered by you, James! It so happens that— _no, I do not_ need you to keep me warm while Felix is away! Stop putting words in my mouth!” More giggling and some protracted snorting. Asa’s face is bordering on beet-red, and he’s tucking his mussy hair behind one seldom-seen, but prominent and slightly pointy ear. “Although, hmm, you’re not far off the mark. Heat’s off at Felix’s flat—furnace must’ve died. Felix’s roommate knocked on a couple doors to make certain and _everyone_ says their heat’s gone _kaput_. And I figure since you’re so bloody handy with machinery, especially the older stuff . . . yes. Right. Yeeeees. Ye— _James Evelyn Bull_! That’s neither here _nor_ there! _You_ need to accept that _I’ve_ finally got a boyfriend who’s a keeper, and that you and I are just two jet-skis that’ve passed in the night!”

 

Dorian silently sighs.

 

“No, maybe not my _truest_ , but you’ll always be my _first_ , Bull, and that’s . . . certainly something. Something I’ll always treasure. . . .” Asa murmurs warmly and fondly—and in what he probably thinks is a sotto voice—with a darting glance at Dorian, who doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not been listening. Asa’s flush deepens.

 

“Right. So. Anyway, we’ve got a busted furnace in mid-winter . . . might you be able to come take a look at it soon? Perhaps even today-ish. . . ?”

 

At this, Dorian sits forward a bit, shivering and hopeful. Asa nods distractedly a few times, then finally _smiles_ , bright and full-bore. As always, when Asa smiles like that, there’s a moment when Dorian can see all the things—hidden things that only a very close friend or lover would see—that Felix is so entranced by and devoted to. Asa’s enthusiasm for the people he cares about is utterly without reserve or subterfuge. He feels what he feels bravely and keenly. And he _never_ hides it or excepts it. His heart is worn on his sleeve—it’s his armor, in a way that Dorian envies and admires, though he’d never admit as much to Asa.

 

Asa shines for _everyone_ . . . it’s who he is. But even so, he still, somehow, seems to shine _brighter_ and more purely in _Felix’s_ presence than in anyone else’s. He fairly _glows_ around Felix. When together, the pair of them are like binary suns: incandescent, gorgeous, and rather painful to look at for a few reasons.

 

Were Felix not so eminently deserving of this strange, but good luck in love . . . this effortless _synergy_ with another human being, Dorian could easily see himself being rather covetous of his best friend’s relationship, if not exactly of Asa, himself.

 

But, thankfully, the moment passes quickly, Asa’s big smile settling into a soft, silly grin that’s only slightly wistful. “Yes, _thank you_ , that’s brilliant, Jamie! You’re an absolute _love_ , you are! Heart as big as all outdoors . . . yes, I _do_ recall that you have at least one organ that’s far larger,” he murmurs with affectionate exasperation, rolling his eyes and gone magenta about the face. His free hand is twined in his hair, fiddling and twirling one red lock around his fingers as he obviously fights a laugh. “You’re a shameless flirt, but a wonderful man. And an irreplaceable friend . . . oh, don’t be silly, James! _Of course_ , I know you’re only teasing to get a laugh out of me—I can practically see those eyebrows waggling!—not that that’s ever a difficult thing to do, heh. Anyway. Yes, excellent! I’m very glad you’re able to stop in so soon! At least one of us’ll be here to let you in. With bells on! And probably all-weather gear!”

 

After a few more near-helpless giggles and snorts, Asa rings off with a sigh, then stares at his phone with a fond, bemused look.

 

It’s only when Dorian clears his throat pointedly that Asa glances up, startled, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.

 

“Am I interrupting something?” Dorian inquires of _Felix’s lover_ with pointed and poisoned sweetness, and a sharply hoisted eyebrow. He is, as ever, entirely prepared to downwardly revise his estimate of Asa’s, or anyone’s character, at a moment’s notice, should new evidence provide itself. “Shall I leave you alone with your ancient phone and . . . your stroll down Memory Lane with this . . . _James_?”

 

Asa laughs a bit, self-deprecating, but neither guilty nor caught-out. In fact, the laugh is more self-mocking and dismissive, if anything. Then it settles into the dreamy, somewhat gobsmacked smile Asa has _always_ worn when his thoughts turn to all things _Felix_. Like a man who hasn’t even played the lottery nonetheless winning the big jackpot.

 

“Don’t be absurd, Dorian. Strolling down Memory Lane’s got _nothing_ on relaxing in my nice mansion on Cloud Nine. James Bull is a dear man, but he _is_ my past. Felix . . . is my present. And, God willing, _every_ moment of my future,” he says with one of his occasional flashes of beyond-sincere intensity. And with surprising warmth as well, which—also surprisingly—settles something in _Dorian_. That, and Asa is _glowing_ , once more, the tenderness and contentment in those unshielded eyes as powerful and pure as sunlight. That sentiment _isn’t_ directed at this James Bull-person, either.

 

Dorian nods as his final few reservations about his best friend’s flighty, but apparently committed lover are at last laid to rest. For, if at the merest thought of Felix, Asa Lavellan _glows_ as if his best and happiest day will _always_ be the very next one he spends with Felix—not the ones long behind, spent with some _other person—_ Dorian supposes he can hardly ask for better dedication than that. Especially when said dedication rather neatly appeases the fierce roar of protectiveness and possessiveness Dorian suspects _he’ll_ always feel with regards to his best friend.

 

First, but _not_ truest, Asa had told this James-person, and therein lay all the truth of Asa’s open heart. That’s enough for Dorian.

 

“Well, that’s fine, then.” With a sniff and generous discretion, he lets the matter lie closed. “So, I take it this _James_ of yours is available today?”

 

Asa nods and grins. “Luckily for us, yes! Today’s his light day! Any other weekday, and James’d have work, lectures, and side-projects straight through until after midnight. And his weekends tend to be rather busier, _still_. But today, he should be able to get here sometime between . . . oh, half-two and half-ten.”

 

Dorian’s mouth drops open. But it’s at least a minute before anything coherent comes out, instead of affronted sputters. “That’s _eight hours_ of waiting around! I’m assisting Professor Markle at lecture at three, and she has office hours which I am _required_ to be present and productive for until seven-thirty! I don’t get home until after eight at the earliest! At which point I have plans to work on something _relatively_ unimportant—merely my bloody dissertation!”

 

Asa pouts. “No need to be _dramatic_ , Dorian. I can hang about here until a little after six, I suppose. But my sister and her husband have some sort of . . . anniversary-dinner-thing at seven-sharp, and I promised them _Uncle Asa_ would be there to keep the kiddos from eating paint chips and demolishing the house.” He shrugs.

 

 _Well, couldn’t you babysit them_ here? Dorian almost demands, then thinks of three fiery-haired, mini-Lavellans, running loose in the flat. Getting into everything, including Dorian’s bedroom and clothes and his _lecture-notes_ —the ones that haven’t been transcribed to his laptop, which is about two weeks’ worth, since he’s been so damned busy and behind—touching things with curious, sticky, _grimy_ little fingers. Making a mess that Asa wouldn’t even lift a finger to halt, mostly because he, himself, is incapable of seeing the problem with chaotic surroundings. . . .

 

With a shudder, Dorian carefully suppresses that ludicrous and horrifying suggestion, and buries it so deep, he’ll only ever recall it again in his darkest nightmares. “Alright, that’s . . . not entirely terrible. The timing is a bit unfortunate, but . . . it’ll have to do, I suppose. Do you think he’s more likely to show up closer to eight p.m., or ten?”

 

Asa makes an apologetic face. “I’d say ten, even though it’s his light day? Though, honestly, one can never be too certain with James’s crammed-full schedule and the demands on his time.”

 

Rolling his eyes once more—it’s been just that sort of day, and there’s still plenty left to it—Dorian sighs. So much for immersing himself in his work once he gets home. “Well, then, it’s certainly above and beyond of him to make time to wrangle our furnace, or try to, at any rate. So, I shan’t be an arsehole and complain about timing, and such. When all’s said and done, it’s far easier to work on one’s dissertation when one isn’t literally freezing to death! And I’d certainly prefer to have the furnace looked at tonight, no matter how late, instead of a month from now!”

 

“I should think so. And if James Bull says _today_ , he’ll move Heaven and Earth to get here today.” Snorting, Asa goes on with unhidden concern. “Though, that’s one of many reasons I worry after him. Aside from the occasional power-naps that keep him from having a psychotic break, I doubt he sleeps regularly. He works _far_ too much. Always has. I feel guilty asking for even an _hour_ of his time. And . . . I _worry for him_. Worry that one of these days, he’ll cross the wrong wires in someone’s circuit board or what-have-you, and electrocute himself because he was tired and off his game!”

 

Dorian’s brows shoot up. “Er. That doesn’t exactly instill one with faith or hope for this building not going up like a towering inferno, let alone for the repair of that ticking time-bomb of a furnace!”

 

Asa smiles limply and waves his hand. “Oh, don’t listen to me exaggerate, Dorian. James is _the best_ electrician on this planet and several adjacent ones. Been working in the business since he was fifteen. Minus a stint in the military and Special Forces. . . .”

 

#

 

To say the day’s lecture is a beast is gross understatement.

 

Dr. Diane Markle is a tough don and workhorse at the best of times on the best of days. But today, she’s certainly living up to her reputation. It’s nearly eight-thirty before she pauses, mid-plotting of next week’s lesson plan and agenda, blinks slightly reddened eyes behind rimless, round glasses, and takes in an attentive, if drooping Dorian. She smiles apologetically, and shoos him out of her office.

 

Dorian’s so bloody drained, he doesn’t even protest or offer to stay until the professor, herself, is ready to leave—and knowing Markle’s moods as he does, this seems like it might be a day that doesn’t end until the beginning of the next one is behind her—just stifles a yawn, smiles thankfully, wishes her a respectful good night, and takes his leave.

 

She wishes him the same, mumbling and distracted, and absently reminds him to close his eyes for at least a few hours before wading into his dissertation again. Then she’s muttering to herself as she alternates between scribbling in her notebook and editing on her tablet.

 

Chuckling tiredly, Dorian gently closes the door to her office behind him and starts the evening commute.

 

It’s almost nine when he finally shuffles—sapped and achy from the cold, which he’s never dealt well with—up the cobblestone walk of the small block of flats which he calls home.

 

Dorian’s so distracted by a point of academic contention that needs resolving, ideally before he puts fingers to keyboard tonight, that he doesn’t even notice the person leaning against the railing of the front steps. Said person watches him approach from the penultimate step, a surprised smile lighting his face, but Dorian doesn’t even realize he’s not alone until he’s practically standing on the man’s feet.

 

“Oh!” Dorian exclaims, startled, flustered, and blinking up—and up and _UP_ —at the tall, broad figure he’d nearly bumped into. He’s amazed he didn’t spot such a large person in such a bright blue coat and matching hat. “Terribly sorry, there! Wasn’t paying attention! Didn’t mean to—”

 

“Ah, it’s my fault, really. I, uh, saw you coming up the walk. You looked pretty distracted—I coulda moved or said something, instead of doing my impersonation of a statue,” the giant says easily. His accent is some sort of muddled, American-thing, with hints of Somewhere Else that’s not American _at all_. A crooked, but charming smile quirks the left side of his wide mouth. Not too far above that smile and a prominent nose, one storm-gray eye and one black and silver eyepatch regard Dorian with weary amusement. “Though, I gotta admit, I was, ah, pretty distracted myself.”

 

And Dorian’s _still_ blinking away his startlement by the time the giant’s unhidden once-over makes its way down Dorian’s Burberry-swaddled form, and back up to his face. At which point, that crooked, rakish smile widens.

 

“ _Damn_ ,” the giant huffs out, shaking his head with pleased wonder. “So, I’m _really_ hoping you’re Dorian Pavus.”

 

Another blink and Dorian’s exhausted brain is finally playing catch-up. “Er. Yes. Didn’t _volunteer_ , of course. I was drafted. Er.” Shaking his head to clear out the lingering fog of tiredness and dissertation-obsession, Dorian raises his hand to rub his stinging, heavy eyes. Then lowers it and raises the other hand, when he nearly hits himself in the face with his laptop bag. “I, er, imagine you must be Asa’s electrician-friend . . . James Bull.”

 

The giant nods once, his brows lifting. “Slam-dunk. Gladameetcha, guy,” he says, giving Dorian a jaunty, fuzzy-gloved, but crisp salute. His other hand comes up, holding a gigantic tool box Dorian is certain anyone else, himself included, would have trouble lifting. James Bull, however, manages it as if it’s nothing. “What-say we go take a look at your furnace, huh?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian agrees, smiling with relief, and shivering, too. He knows the flat won’t be much warmer than outside, nor will the rest of the building, but hopefully James Bull will be able to fix that with a minimum of fuss for all involved. “That’d be brilliant, Mr. Bull. And thank you for even making the time.”

 

“Ah, it’s not a problem. Any friend of Asa’s,” the other man says with a fond chuckle as Dorian steps past him, digging his icy keys out of his coat pocket. “And it’s just _Bull_. I don’t stand on formalities.”

 

“Right. Er, _Bull_ , it is, then. And, do call me _Dorian_ , would you?” Dorian unlocks the front door of the building and lets them both into the freezing vestibule. “I apologize and thank you for waiting. I meant to be home an hour ago, but I was kept late at my duties, and . . . well, I _fervently_ hope you weren’t left waiting and wondering out in the cold for too long.”

 

“Eh. Asa called a few hours ago and said you might be running a bit late with class. And, anyway, _long_ is sorta relative. I’ve waited in far colder climates for _far_ longer,” Bull rumbles, stepping into the hall on Dorian’s heels, after pulling the front door shut securely and the door between hall and vestibule. “Besides, this coat is North Face. I’m toasty as shit in it.”

 

Dorian means to sniff, but it comes out as a huff of suppressed laughter that he only barely manages to turn into a clearing of his throat.

 

“Yes, well. How providential for you.” He flicks on the hall light, rolling his eyes—Agnes Cavanaugh, his ancient neighbor, has a less-than-endearing habit of turning off the hall and porch lights, and shutting interior doors that are _clearly_ left on and open for convenience or safety’s sake, not merely to waste electricity or let out heat—as he leads Bull down the hall toward the back exit. The final door _before_ that exit leads down to the cellar-slash-utility room. “The furnace is this way, Bull. Fair warning: it was secondhand when Thatcher was PM and its serial number is probably _two_.”

 

Bull’s laugh is loud, hearty, and genuinely amused. Dorian doesn’t bother to stifle his own smile. And since Bull is behind him, it’s not like anyone can see it, anyway.

 

#

 

“Wow! If I weren’t seeing it for myself, I wouldn’t’ve believed it! Hot damn!”

 

Dorian’s brows lift as he watches Bull stand and gape at the furnace, which looks like a giant brass and iron octopus. Like the sort of thing that does and in fact _did_ clank ringingly when working at peak.

 

Pulling off his fuzzy, blue gloves and stretchy, blue hat, Bull shoves both in the pockets of his coat. The hands revealed are, of course, large and work-roughened, powerful and dangerous-looking. But the nails are short, clean, and well-kept. The hair that’d been under the hat is pin-straight and near-black, shot through with threads of gray, and shaggy and grown-out. Not to mention a bit messy because of the hat. It’s thick and floppy, in no particular style, and obscures Bull’s forehead almost down to his prominent brows.

 

Despite the sensual features and strong, square jaw—dusted in five o’clock shadow fast approaching midnight—and despite that threading of gray in his hair and the piratical eyepatch, as Bull stares with bemused awe at the ancient furnace, he looks no older than Asa.

 

“Wow,” he says again, chuckling delightedly, putting down his toolbox with care, then standing with arms akimbo as he leans in to survey the mess he’ll have to deal with. “This is the kinda bad-boy my _Tama’s Tama_ learned on. Son of a bitch. Does it run on steam? ‘Cause, I _really_ want it to run on steam.”

 

Placing his laptop bag on the large, surprisingly undusty table just below the cellar’s shallow, east-facing bank of windows, Dorian joins Bull right in front of the furnace. He finds himself once more fighting a smile and a laugh. It’s a fight he loses, but that’s not so terrible.

 

“I think it runs on the compassion of Tories. Which would certainly explain its poor track-record of heating this bloody place!”

 

“Ha!” Bull elbows Dorian companionably, lightly, and Dorian laughs again and blushes. Not his usual response to being jostled with unearned familiarity, as if he was some common drunk at a pub. Not at all, but then . . . he’s far too tired to make an issue over the _bonhomie_ of someone who’s kind enough to try and fix what’s likely unfixable.

 

“Goddamn,” Bull breathes, still with all the awe of an astronomer discovering a new nebula. “What a beaut!”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes, but says nothing. He’s far too exhausted to be snarky or impatient, at the moment. Or so he reassures himself. He’s _absolutely_ not feeling indulgent and charmed.

 

 _I need a holiday_ , he decides suddenly. _When mother and father take their yearly Tour of Misery to Ibiza, perhaps I’ll join them. The eight years since I last went may have . . . mellowed them. Hope springs eternal, after all. Or perhaps . . . perhaps I’ll tag-along, when Felix and Asa meet Gereon in the Outer Hebrides for whatever cultural and educational whirlwind he has planned for this summer. Seeing the Callanish Stones would at least be edifying. . . ._

 

Though, neither holiday really appeals, because of the company and the climate, respectively.

 

“Well, hello, my friend,” Bull is murmuring to the bloody furnace, stepping forward, and placing a surprisingly gentle hand on the body of the beast as if it’s a beloved hound. “I’ll bet you were a modern marvel, back in the day. Let’s see if between the two of us, we can’t get you back in fighting trim, huh?”

 

Chuckling, Dorian watches Bull unzip and shrug off his big, blue coat and toss it absently at the table without taking his eyes off the furnace. The coat lands right next to Dorian’s laptop bag, despite that. Sniffing, Dorian crosses his arms and gives Bull a discreet, but assessing once-over. Somehow, the other man seems even larger without the bulky coat. Dorian barely comes up to those wide, thickly-padded shoulders, clad as they are in what must be yards of blue and green plaid. Bull’s arms are thick with muscle that’s obvious even though it’s covered, and his legs are similarly solid, despite the roominess—not quite bagginess—of his worn black jeans.

 

His feet are shod in positively _massive_ black work-boots.

 

By the time Dorian’s sight-seeing tour takes him back up to Bull’s linger-worthy profile, it’s to find the other man practically smirking back at him, one hand still on the furnace even as his body inclines half-toward Dorian.

 

“See somethin’ you like, Professor?” Bull’s drawl is deliberate and cocky, his right brow raised in challenge. Dorian lets his own brows do some speaking for him, though somewhat more subtly.

 

“I haven’t _quite_ earned that title, yet, Mr. Bull. So, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t jinx my chances.”

 

Bull chuckles, the smirk slipping back into that boyish, crooked smile. “It’s just _Bull_ , remember? Or . . . uh, you can call me _James_ , if you want . . . I’ll answer to damn-near _anything_ if _you’re_ the one who’s calling.” When Dorian continues to give him a flat, unimpressed stare, Bull grins, showing off strong, perfect teeth. “And according to Asa, you’re a shoe-in for professorship and tenure. Hell, to hear _him_ tell it, you’re the last, best hope of the university’s history department!”

 

“Ah, but there _is_ another,” Dorian allows with enigmatic solemnity. Bull’s eye widens in surprise.

 

“Huh. Really?”

 

Dorian snorts. “Of course, not _really_! My mentor, Dr. Markle, and I are all that’s keeping the department afloat! I just rather like making semi-obscure pop-culture references then playing the martyr when no one gets them.” He waves his hand dismissively and Bull moves away from the furnace and closer to Dorian.

 

“Well, you’re gonna have to be a bit more semi-obscure than that to stump _me_ , Padawan.”

 

Bull’s murmur is a soft, inviting rumble, and his gaze is so direct it makes Dorian flush deeply. _So_ deeply that he feels warm for the first time all day.

 

“Yes, well,” Dorian manages to huff out, clearing his throat and dropping his gaze from Bull’s plainly interested one. Far from being cold, despite the chill of the cellar, Dorian is suddenly fighting not to unbutton his coat and loosen his cashmere scarf. “I shall put _stumping Bull_ on my to-do list, directly.”

 

“Professor Pavus! Was that _innuendo_?” Bull’s eye widens with fake-innocence. Dorian certainly does _not_ turn five shades redder.

 

“It was sarcasm, Mr. Bull.”

 

“What a pity, then. Because I think you’d find that I’m susceptible to the charms of gorgeous, _Star Wars_ -obsessed history-geeks.”

 

“Hmph. I prefer history- _nerd_ , thanks. _Geek_ implies I might have other related leanings, skills, and hobbies beyond the two. It’s just history and _Star Wars_ , and nothing else, I’m afraid.”

 

“Well, _that’s_ a waste of a handsome college-boy. I can easily think of a few rewarding outside interests you might enjoy, if you’re . . . taking suggestions.” Bull’s voice is a low and intimate murmur that makes Dorian shiver and list toward the bigger man, even as he wonders how, exactly, they got so very close to each other. Dorian’s getting a crick in his neck from all the looking up.

 

Though even _he_ can’t deny the view is _eminently_ worth a bit of crick.

 

“Is that so?” Dorian only realizes he’s licking his lips because Bull’s gaze drops to his mouth and lingers with heated speculation.

 

“Oh, I’ve got _plenty_ ideas you might like, Professor.”

 

“You’re certainly very sure of yourself,” Dorian temporizes huffily, disapproving not of Bull’s confidence, but of his own weakness for confident men. And when that confidence comes in such a striking—and, he senses, insightful and intelligent—package, it’s Dorian’s Achilles heel.

 

Bull’s smile takes on a hint of wry knowing. “Guess I gotta be, huh? I’m sensing that humility and charmingly earnest stammering, _a la_ Hugh Grant, doesn’t exactly win a guy like you over.”

 

Dorian lets a small smile curve his lips, but doesn’t confirm or deny. He shoves his hands in his deep, lined pockets to keep from fidgeting . . . or from placing his hands on Bull’s chest to map out the hot, firm territory of solid muscle and dense bone.

 

Really, the sudden urge and yearning to do so is overwhelming and alarming.

 

“Goddamn,” Bull exhales again in one long syllable, running a hand over his shaggy-messy hair and pushing it off his high, clear brow. It then flops right back, but Bull doesn’t notice. He’s staring at Dorian’s mouth again with wishful wistfulness, and Dorian flushes once more, then stops licking his lips. It’s the sort of obvious and sophomoric tell he’s never displayed around attractive men before. Not even in his rather gawky early teenhood. “God. _Damn_ , Professor, you are . . . absolutely fucking _flawless_.”

 

“Yes, I am. Did Asa not mention that to you?” Dorian inquires with breathless coquetry, widening his eyes with his own fake innocence. Bull snorts and shakes his head.

 

“He might’ve, a few times. In passing. But, uh . . . I know how Asa’s tastes run, and . . . Felix is a great guy. Good-looking dude, but not my, uh . . . type.” He shrugs almost haplessly, but closes the dwindling distance between them a little more. “Not my type at all.”

 

“I suppose that’s not a surprise, considering you and my best friend’s boyfriend were lovers, once,” Dorian muses pointedly, rather than ask the question Bull had been clearly herding him toward. “I imagine _your_ taste runs to flaky, pretty, flirty redheads with a fondness for various intoxicants and a chronic inability to choose a major.”

 

Bull laughs, low and dry. “Yeah, I’ve got a weakness for those, no doubt. But I’m an egalitarian when it comes to particulars beyond gaze-able eyes, a wicked smile, and a fantastic ass. And quick and cutting wit.”

 

“Of course. Couldn’t do without _those_.” Dorian realizes that he, too, has been moving closer and closer, and now, he and Bull are separated by bare inches of heated space. The larger man smells of some old-fashioned aftershave and ozone, fabric softener and metal.

 

“You’ve definitely got the eyes, the smile, and the wit,” Bull notes with intent appreciation. Dorian’s mouth curves in a smirk he hasn’t felt the urge to wear in far too long. “Kinda can’t tell about your ass, though. Not with that cock-blocker coat in the way.”

 

“My arse is _transcendent_ , I assure you.”

 

“Proof, or it didn’t happen.”

 

Dorian huffs again, but doesn’t resist or evince the slightest disdain when Bull’s right arm slides around his waist, his giant mitt coming to rest just above Dorian’s transcendent arse. He expects to be pulled closer, still, and has to fight a pout when he isn’t. Bull is searching his face with keen consideration. Dorian feels laid bare and turns red again, but holds that gaze and does some searching of his own.

 

“Listen, full disclosure? I’m a dyed-in-the-wool flirt, Dorian Pavus. But I’m also dead-fucking-serious when I say you’re the sexiest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. The kinda stunner countries used to go to war over,” Bull says, his smile and gaze mellowing to something surprisingly sincere. “And if I can’t get your furnace working again, I _happily_ volunteer to stay and keep you warm for as long as you let me.”

 

Dorian’s mouth drops open at such plainly-stated interest and intentions from a man who seems to enjoy verbal sparring even more than Dorian does.

 

Bull clears his throat and his pale-olive complexion gains a faint, pinkish flush. “I mean, it’s on offer, y’know? Just, uh . . . puttin’ it out there. You don’t have to take me up on it tonight or ever, if you’re not into it. Believe me, the dancing around and banter is five-by-five, eleven out of ten! But if you’re interested in _more_ than some dancing around and banter . . . I’m down for that, too.” That strong brow furrows in frustration and consternation, and Bull’s hand begins the reluctant slide away from Dorian’s arse. “Anyway, uh, I should probably get to work on your Rube Goldberg furnace, before—”

 

“Shut up, Bull. _Shut up_ , is what you should probably do. And also, you should kiss me, while you’re at it,” Dorian adds with decisive firmness. “All this dancing around and banter _is_ nice, but _neither_ of us are _nice men_ , are we? So, if there’s something _more_ you want from me, I suggest you try _taking_ it.”

 

The words are barely out of Dorian’s mouth—and Bull’s mouth has only barely crooked in a promising smirk—before that hand is sliding back to its previous spot, then lower. It doesn’t stop till its grasping Dorian’s left arse-cheek and squeezing with rough, possessive promise.

 

“Huh. You weren’t kiddin’ about _transcendent_ ,” Bull murmurs hungrily, and before Dorian can agree, with his usual dismissive snark, Bull is yanking him _closest_. And like that, they’re pressed flush against each other and _cold_ is a forgotten memory of unhappier times. With a positively Mephistophelian chuckle, Bull claims Dorian’s mouth in a kiss that’s thorough to the point of being delightfully obscene. At least at first. Once Dorian finds the wherewithal to participate and give as good as he gets, Bull tones down the intensity, until the kiss is a tickle and tease of the larger man’s lush lips, talented tongue, and mobile mouth. He tastes bitter-dark and earthy-strong, like some non-Guinness stout and _especially good_ coffee.

 

Dorian whimpers and moans, even as he bounces up on his toes and settles tentative hands on Bull’s firm, warm chest. The heartbeat within is fierce, steady, and slightly elevated.

 

By the time Dorian’s arms have wound around Bull’s neck, and Bull’s got both hands clenching on and kneading Dorian’s arse, the kiss has cycled right back ‘round to its initial hungry intensity. Only . . . even more claiming and determined. Dorian’s body has gone from warm to hot, and his skin is sheened in a very light sweat. He’s half-hard on Bull’s muscular left thigh and Bull’s two-thirds hard against Dorian’s abdomen. They’re holding each other so tight and close, there’s little opportunity for thrusting, just frantic shimmying and grinding that forces more whimpers from Dorian and grunts from Bull.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bull pants against Dorian’s temple when they finally come up for air. Dorian laughs, desperate and breathless and exhilarated.

 

“That _does_ seem to be the inescapable conclusion, yes.”

 

“In that case, some more disclosure: I’m a top. _Always_. I tend to top rough and hard, though I’m open to . . . gentler explorations. My big kinks are edging, bondage and restraint, and pain-play. Also . . . I am _very_. Dominant.”

 

Dorian snorts at what he strongly senses is tactful understatement. “Long story short, you get off on controlling your partners?”

 

“I get off on making my partners _hand over_ their control and _like it. Crave_ it. And keep coming back for more,” Bull corrects, dark and wry, and Dorian shivers.

 

“I . . . don’t hand _anything_ over easily, Bull. Least of all my . . . _control_.” Dorian leans back just enough to look up into Bull’s eye. That storm-gray gaze is already on Dorian’s flushed face, smoldering and measuring.

 

“I don’t imagine you do, Dorian. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

“Is that so?” Dorian asks again, his mouth dry and running on automatic. Bull smirks and shrugs, his gaze flickering, flaring, and darkening.

 

“Yep. Turning pretty, bossy power-bottoms into eager, submissive cock-sluts is a favorite past-time of mine. And I’m _very_ practiced at it.”

 

 _Want_ in the form of blistering heat curls in Dorian’s belly—in his balls—and right under his skin. Even the gentle friction of his boxers, when coupled with Bull’s slow, easy grinding, is _maddening_. That intense, unflappable, devouring _gaze_ is maddening.

 

Twining his fingers in the thick, messy hair at Bull’s nape, Dorian leans in and tugs experimentally, then lets challenge light his own gaze and quirk the corners of his mouth. “You certainly _talk_ a good game, Bull. But one wonders if that’s _all_ you are . . . teasing and talk.”

 

Bull holds him so tight and close, breathing becomes a conscious effort. Dorian’s eyes flutter shut as he moans, long and embarrassingly needy. With each measured, but shuddering breath, Bull’s scent seems to wrap around his consciousness like a pleasant fog.

 

“I’m gonna wreck you, Dorian Pavus,” Bull promises, more languid, assured growl, than anything. He nuzzles Dorian’s cheek and jaw, also ghosting quick kisses across already-flushed skin that is nevertheless scorched and seared by those kisses. “I’m gonna take you apart inch. By. Quivering. Inch. _And you are going to_ enjoy _it_.”

 

“ _Proof, or it didn’t happen_. . . .” Dorian hitches with shameless abandon, clutching tighter at Bull’s neck and clinging to his huge, hot body. Then he’s gasping as Bull’s fever-hot kisses wend their way down his neck and throat, and those big hands slide into the sudden, but scant space between their bodies to pluck at Dorian’s Burberry.

 

Seconds later, it seems, the Burberry’s a puddle on the floor around Dorian’s feet, and Bull’s squeezing Dorian’s arse tight enough with one hand, that there’ll be bruises later, and palming Dorian’s erection slow and hard and rough through his slacks with the other. It’s _glorious_ and it _hurts_ and it’s the best thing Dorian’s ever felt. He’s gasping again, but soundlessly—cowed into meek, but difficult stillness when the instinctive thrusting of his hips causes Bull to growl and nip his throat with playful warning . . . but warning, nonetheless. Dorian fights for self-control as Bull continues to explore him and test him with confident leisure. His kisses turn into more nips along the hectic-flushed column of Dorian’s throat, right alongside his hammering pulse.

 

“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” Dorian hisses, barely aware that he’s even saying anything. Bull chuckles.

 

“Ah, I know you can beg for it prettier than _that_ , Professor,” he says with cruel tenderness, kissing his way back up to Dorian’s mouth. “If I’m reading you right—and I think I _am_ —you’ve been waiting for someone to make you beg, get you on your knees willingly and happily, in every way that counts, for a _very_ long time.”

 

The scoff Dorian chuffs out is pathetic and more like a gulp. He’s also fairly sure he’s quaking all over, and not just from restraining himself.

 

“I see you, Dorian Pavus,” Bull says quietly, his hand on Dorian’s cock tightening to just on the pleasurable side of agonizing. “I see _all_ the things you’ve been needing and are _begging_ for, but have never gotten. I’m willing to give you every last one of them, and then some. But first, _you’re_ gonna give _me_ what we _both_ want most: Control.”

 

Dorian recoils from the words whispered so surely on his lips. Or, it’d be recoiling if it weren’t so hesitant and slow, and accompanied by a desperately wanton whine.

 

“I _don’t_ hand over my control and I don’t _beg_. I _never_ beg,” he asserts with crumbling stoniness. But it’s true. Dorian’s never begged for anything in his life, let alone a man’s touch. He’s never _had_ to.

 

“Hmm. Never _yet_ , you mean. But there’s a first time for everything and . . . I’m patient,” Bull says gently, his grips on Dorian’s arse and cock easing to token, at best. Another desperate and wanton sound escapes Dorian’s throat, choked and trembling.

 

“You think you’re so clever, do you? Well, maybe I’ll just go back to my flat and take matters into my own hands, as it were,” he threatens, and Bull’s gray gaze flickers, dangerous and hot.

 

“If you think your fingers or a dildo, or _whatever_ , are an even halfway decent substitute for what _I’m_ offering . . . I suggest you do just that.”

 

Dorian can only gape. He’d expected Bull to call his bluff, of course. But he hadn’t expected the other man to be so steely and negligently _mercenary_ about it. Or that said bluff-calling would be so . . . ridiculously thrilling. So _frustrating_. So . . . very. . . .

 

“However,” Bull goes on, his nose brushing Dorian’s, his voice still like tempered steel, but thickening with desire and his own hard-won restraint, “if you’re brave enough to let me take the reins and show you who you are, show you just how _good_ owning your nature can be—the submission, the handing over of control, the freedom of obedience, and all its rewards—then I promise, Dorian, I’ll see to it you _never_ regret it.”

 

Then, the heat and closeness, that distracting scent—the light, but still possessive grips on arse and cock—are gone and chilly air takes their place. Dorian opens eyes he doesn’t recall closing to blink up at Bull, who’s now standing practically at parade-rest two steps away.

 

His gaze is intent, but otherwise unreadable as it rests on the spot just above Dorian’s left shoulder.

 

“All on me, then?” Dorian mutters ruefully, and Bull’s lips twitch.

 

“ _You’re_ the one taking the risk, here. The one going out on a limb,” he says, his eye ticking to Dorian’s face for a moment, then away. “You’re the one with the power.”

 

“I thought _you_ were the one with the power. Or wanted to be.”

 

Another twitch. “Power, and the taking of, is not really my thing. I’m not interested in making _you less_ so I can feel like more. But control . . . _control_ is a somewhat different beast. Similar on the face of it . . . but not really. I _don’t_ want to take your power or agency from you, Dorian. I want _you_ to relinquish your _control_. To unclench and let go, and let me give you what you need.”

 

“What _you_ need, too,” Dorian insists defensively, and Bull’s slow smile is crooked and genuine.

 

“Like I said: _You_ have the power, here. Even if you give up your control for an hour or a night . . . you’ll _still_ have the power.”

 

Shaking his head, Dorian laughs, brief, and a bit tired once more. “That really makes no sense, whatsoever.”

 

“Believe me, if you knew how _bad_ I wanna be the one to give you this—give you the kind of release you’ve never had, but want so fucking desperately—you’d realize just how A-B-C-simple my rationale is.” Bull shrugs with genteel, elegant concession and Dorian huffs haughtily, even as his heart begins to race, his stomach turns over, and his entire paradigm shifts in some as yet incomprehensible way.

 

He wants to explore this internal shift, this change, but recognizes now is _not_ the time for his tendency to self-analyze at the drop of a hat. Now is a time for choice and decisive action. For a declarative statement of intentions which, though not considered to death or brooded over, is nonetheless as firm as gut-level instinct can make it.

 

Taking a deep breath, Dorian stares hard at Bull until the other man’s gaze meets his own almost tentatively, all fire and intensity and naked hope.

 

It’s an electrifying yet difficult gaze to hold, but Dorian does. Even as he sinks shakily, but gracefully to his knees, his own eyes wide and unblinking as Bull’s mouth drops open in a definite gape.

 

In the silence that follows the grunt of impact, and cold immediately spreading through his knees to the rest of his legs, he and Bull stare at each other, laid utterly bare, despite being fully clothed.

 

“Please,” Dorian says simply, quietly, hands nervous and twitching on his thighs. Bull blinks, his expression flickering so fast, through so many emotions, before settling on a small smile, earnest and wondering.

 

“Of course,” he says, taking a step forward. Then another one, which leaves him towering over Dorian, who shivers, then moans as Bull cups his face in one large hand. His thumb brushes slowly, savoringly across Dorian’s lower lip. “Anything.”

 

Dorian’s eyes flutter, then shut. He lists forward into Bull’s touch and presence, with anxious acquiescence.

 

“Damn,” Bull sighs heavily. “ _You’re_ gonna wreck _me, too,_ Professor, aren’tcha?”

 

“Is that reticence, I hear?”

 

“That’s breathless fucking _glee_ , you hear. You go right ahead and _wreck me_ , Dorian Pavus. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

Dorian’s eyes open wide, and Bull’s face is unexpectedly defenseless and without subterfuge. It’s unnerving and a bit frightening, the ease with which Bull is continuing to be so bare, so honest, so _guileless_. Dorian’s first, second, and third instincts are to let fly with something snarky, that will _undoubtedly_ ruin this fragile, thrumming, shared truth that’s just beginning to bind them together.

 

But just then the lights go out and there’s a loud slam from the direction of up-the-stairs . . . followed by the distinct sound of a deadbolt being shot.

 

“What the actual fuck?” Bull complains, his startled-meek voice seeming a tad muffled in darkness that’s leavened only by the porchlight shining in the cellar windows.

 

Which chooses that moment to _also_ go out.

 

Rather, it is, in that moment, _shut off_. Because, _of course_.

 

And now, the cellar is pitch-black. Ice-cold and pitch-bloody-black.

 

“Seriously . . . what the fuck just happened?” Bull demands sharply, sounding unamused, uncertain, and extremely suspicious.

 

“Oh, for the love of—timing of the bloody gods, Agnes!” Dorian grits out accepting the annoying realization of mere moments ago, and following his exclamation with a ruefully strident: “Absolutely brilliant! My neighbor, Agnes Cavanaugh—resident energy conservation-expert and serial shutter of all open doors—has apparently made it home for the evening safely! And decided to celebrate by locking us in a freezing cellar!”

 

The response to this is stunned silence . . . then a sigh as Bull helps Dorian to his feet, and holds him close.

 

“Well, fucking _huzzah_ , to that,” he mutters flatly, almost murderously, as he kisses Dorian’s temple. Dorian snorts without a shred of pity for Agnes Cavanaugh, should Bull ever run into her. “You, uh . . . okay, Professor?”

 

“I imagine I’ll live, yes.”

 

“Because, uh, some people . . . aren’t exactly fond of, uh . . . dark, enclosed spaces.”

 

“ _Some people_?”

 

Bull grunts, but doesn’t say anymore. His body, however, tight and tense against Dorian, and his rapidly wilting erection, speak volumes. As does Bull’s chin coming to rest on top of Dorian’s head and those strong arms tightening around him in a terribly obvious attempt at being butch and comforting and protective. Dorian finds said attempt endearing and charming, and wraps his arms around Bull’s neck once more, leaning into his sturdy warmth, offering his own brand of comfort in the hopes that Bull can draw upon it.

 

“As I recall, there’s a hanging bulb halfway between the furnace and the table near the window,” Dorian says with bluff pragmatism and matter-of-fact calm, after a few tense minutes of listening to Bull’s clearly measured breathing. “I have no idea if it even still works, but now’s as good a time as any to find out, yes?”

 

#

 

Three hours and seven minutes (by Bull’s wristwatch) later:

 

“I can’t believe your mobile’s dead.”

 

“And _I_ can’t believe _you_ don’t have a mobile _at all_!”

 

To that, it seems, Bull has no immediate reply.

 

They’re sitting huddled together on the floor, under the western-bank of windows—breaths pluming out white even in the murky-dim, occasionally flickering light of the naked bulb—and have long-since run out of distracting small-talk. They have, in fact, been reduced to shivering and clutching at each other as best they can while wearing their bulky coats, and tossing out conversational gambits that fall flat.

 

“It’s not that I don’t have one, Professor, it’s just that I never remember to carry it, y’know? It’s so small and annoying . . . like a bichon frise or a chihuahua. Can you _blame me_ for repressing all memory of owning one?”

 

“Considering that we’re likely to freeze to death before anyone finds us here, yes. _Yes_ , I can and _do_ blame you very, very much.” Dorian sniffs, and grumbles until Bull hugs him impossibly closer and kisses the top of his head tenderly. Whether due to the intensified cuddling or the kiss, Dorian _does_ feel slightly warmer, though he’ll die—perhaps literally—before he admits that to Bull.

 

“Ah, don’t be an alarmist. When he gets back, Asa’s probably gonna wonder where we are and eventually wander down here. You’ll see.”

 

“ _That’s_ rather doubtful, since one can’t _see_ if one has _frozen to death_!”

 

“You’re being melodramatic, Dorian.”

 

“I’m being realistic! I’ve _never_ been this cold for this long in my life!”

 

“Lucky you,” Bull mutters grimly, then snorts and forces a laugh before Dorian’s sluggish mind can latch on to that unexpected bit of bitterness. “You saying I’m not keeping you warm, Professor? ‘Cause, if that’s what you’re saying, I may have to make my sad-face.”

 

And with that, Bull runs his fingers up and down Dorian’s left shoulder and bicep, slow and somehow hot even through Dorian’s many chilly layers.

 

A sudden flush of actual _heat_ tsunamis through him at that touch and that rough, rumbling purr, and he shivers for a reason that has nothing to do with being _cold_. He manages to stifle the moan that tries to burble out of him, but can’t stop himself from snuggling closer to the larger man. Bull chuckles smugly.

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

“Don’t—don’t be insufferable. It’s been _hours_ and neither of us are exactly warm, anymore. You’re warm- _er_ than I, but hardly _warm!_ ”

 

“Fair point,” Bull concedes thoughtfully. Then chuckles again. “So, okay, I’ve got a possible solution in mind, but it’s kinda like a bad cliché—”

 

“Ugh. I know where this is going, Bull, and I’m not interested. Don’t even bother finishing the sentence.”

 

“Hear me out, though—it’s guaranteed to make us warm, if nothing else. And I have a feeling there’ll actually be _plenty_ of _else_.”

 

Another tsunami and shiver, and Dorian sighs. “I refuse. Unequivocally. My . . . introduction to BDSM will _not_ begin in a freezing, barely-lit cellar, where anyone could walk in on us.”

 

“Ah, only Asa’s gonna be looking for us, and he’s probably gonna crash at his sister’s. He won’t be getting back before morning.”

 

“While, rationally, I know you mean that to be comforting, Bull, it’s very much _not_.”

 

But Bull is nuzzling Dorian’s temple, his cheek, his ear. “You smell fucking _amazing_ , y’know?”

 

“It’s called _bathing_. Should we live through this, I’ll introduce you to the concept.”

 

“Only if that means I get to shower _with_ you. Help you get nice and clean before I dirty you all up, again.”

 

“Bull. . . .”

 

“Look, for now, we can obviously only go so far, considering the lack of lube—I’m assuming you _don’t_ have lube in your laptop bag, huh? Yeah, thought not—and the less than optimal surroundings. So, we can save the kink-stuff for a later date, but . . . we can _still_ have a lot of fun and generate a _lot_ of body-heat in the meantime, doing . . . other things. It’s _science_ , Professor.”

 

“Ugh. When, exactly, did my life turn into a played-out fanfic trope? _Canadian Shack_ , for the win!” Dorian snarks plaintively, then snorts. He gets the surprise of his life when Bull tugs on his ear lobe with playful teeth and creates an erogenous zone from a spot about which Dorian had never before been particular. _Now_ , the tugging and tongueing leaves him shivering and nearly whimpering.

 

“So, _that’s_ what you’re into, huh? Well, then. Personality-wise, I’m a Ray K., more than a Fraser. Except Ray’s _clearly_ a sub and a bottom, and I’m . . . very much neither. So, _you_ be Ray, I’ll be Benton, and we’ll keep each other warm the old-fashioned way.” Bull pauses and hums for a few moments. “Huh. Bet I’d look _damned_ good in that Mountie-getup, though. And you seem like the type who digs a man in uniform.”

 

And there goes that whimper Dorian’s been suppressing. “Who _are_ you and how are you so bloody _unreal_?” he gasps out as Bull’s hand twitches aside the Burberry, and lands on Dorian’s left thigh. Dorian groans, loud and long—both of his formerly clenched thighs are spread, now, and when did _that_ happen?—and Bull squeezes with restrained, but powerful appetite.

 

Then Dorian’s quickly shrugging the Burberry down his shoulders and off his arms at Bull’s urging. He slides down the wall into slight a slouch, to give Bull better access when that hand lands high on his thigh, again.

 

“You can even call me _Benton_ while I suck your cock,” the infernally confident nuisance adds graciously, and only half-jokingly. Dorian laughs unwillingly, flustered and distracted—then cries out, soft and helpless, as Bull cups his interested and rapidly rising cock. “Fuck, you’re so _responsive_ . . . that’s sexy as hell.”

 

“Bull—”

 

“You cut?”

 

“Wha—no. I’m not.” Dorian blushes.

 

“Neither am I. Hmm, I gotta admit, there’s something ridiculously arousing about an elegant, button-down guy like you, with an _au natural_ dick. And I’ll bet your dick’s as gorgeous as the _rest of you_ , even without the foreskin-factor.”

 

Dorian’s face is painfully hot and probably mortifyingly blotchy. “N-Never had any complaints. . . .”

 

“I believe you.”

 

Then Bull’s carefully, but nimbly unbuttoning and unzipping Dorian’s slacks, his fingers making their way past the twill, then past the cotton of Dorian’s boxer-briefs. The tips of his fingers are warm-ish and callused. Gentle and reverent . . . unlike the coarse, hungry, need-drenched groan that sounds from Dorian’s entire _being_ , via his throat.

 

“Yeah, Dorian,” Bull breathes, hot and stuttered on the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “Lemme _hear_ you. Tell me what you need and how bad you need it.”

 

“Need . . . oh, _Bull_ . . . oh, bloody _hell_ ,” Dorian stammers out as Bull tugs him free of his clothes then sets up a light, slow, teasing rhythm. “Need . . . more . . . _this_ , but . . . _more_. . . .”

 

“ _More_ is a need I can _definitely_ meet, Professor,” Bull promises, low and dirty. Then his hand is gripping tighter, moving faster, and—somehow—getting hotter. “More like _this_?”

 

“ _Yessss_.” Dorian is shaking and gasping, and clutching at Bull’s shoulder with one hand, while the other flaps and flutters like a distressed bat.

 

When Bull lets go of Dorian’s cock suddenly and rumbles a commanding: “Lift up, Professor,” then hooks his fingers in the waistband of Dorian’s slacks, Dorian wastes no time. He bucks his pelvis up off the puddled Burberry and maintains the position while Bull eases down slacks and boxers at the same time, over Dorian’s erection and down to mid-thigh. Then, after a considering pause, down to just below Dorian’s knees.

 

After _another_ pause, the boxers and slacks are whipped off, only to go sailing merrily over Bull’s big, left shoulder.

 

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and places his hand on the tight, twitching muscles of Dorian’s inner thigh again. He squeezes some more as his hand slowly slides inward and up. Dorian flops back onto his arse and only barely notices Bull shifting and kneeling between his sprawled thighs with a soft grunt. And by the time Bull’s resumed that tight, fast, hot stroking, and the big, callused fingertips of his free hand brush Dorian’s lips, Dorian’s eyes are tight-shut. His breathing is erratic and labored, and interspersed with continuous moans from behind gritted teeth.

 

And still, Bull is tracing Dorian’s lips and playfully tapping them.

 

“C’mon, Professor . . . wet or dry, these fingers are going where the sun don’t shine. And I don’t think you’re ready to try taking _any_ of me _completely dry_.”

 

“Wh-Wha—” Dorian gets out, then he’s sputtering garbled offense around Bull’s first two fingers. He opens his eyes expressly to glare at the other man, but Bull’s staring at Dorian’s exposed cock with avid fascination. Then he leans down to lick the tip, then kiss it with a puckish smacking sound, Dorian squawks and nearly gives him a facial. He closes his eyes tight once more and moans, while fighting to get himself under some sort of control. When Bull’s fingers curl slightly on his tongue, Dorian automatically begins sucking, teasing, and laving those fingers in a less than subtle hint.

 

“That’s it, show me what that smart mouth can do,” Bull purrs and chuckles along the underside of Dorian’s cock, with more random, teasing licks and kisses, until Dorian’s sucking has lost all coordination and intent. His hips are moving of their own accord in brief, sharp, truncated thrusts that Bull is kind enough not to be punitive about. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. He closes his lips around the tip of Dorian’s cock and teases the slit mercilessly, humming lazily as he does so. Dorian is once more reduced to squawks and gasps, and Bull’s humming somehow becomes smug. He slips his fingers out of Dorian’s open mouth and shifts around, pushing Dorian’s thighs wider. To say Dorian puts up no resistance is another prime example of extreme understatement.

 

Then Dorian’s moaning loud as Bull simultaneously swallows half his cock while trailing warm, wet fingers past Dorian’s balls and along his perineum.

 

“ _Buuuullll_ ,” Dorian groans, sliding down the wall a bit more—spreading wider, and canting his hips and arse up off the cold lining of his coat in tacit approval. In unabashed _need_. “ _Please_. . . .”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

When Dorian manages to get his eyes open, the sight of Bull’s over-the-top innocent gaze and brazen mouth push him that much closer to the edge. But the fingers that had been inching their way toward up toward his entrance have halted, as does the suction and teasing. Bull is merely a warm mouth around him and the insistent pressure of fingers so close, but still so far from where Dorian needs them.

 

After blinking away tears of frustration, and forcing himself to focus and think, Dorian barks out something that’s almost a laugh, but is mostly a haughty huff.

 

“You’re trying to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

 

Bull’s right eyebrow lifts slightly, but otherwise, Dorian gets no reply, just more of that overdone vapidity. Scoffing, he sighs with as much disdain and weariness as his high-strung, revved-up body can manage.

 

“Fine, then, you controlling-bloody-pervert: I _want_ you to keep sucking my cock with that dockyard-whore mouth. I _need_ you to finger me open quickly and indelicately with those big, brute-fingers of yours. I want you to use those distracting lips, that wicked tongue, and your _teeth_ to work me over until I come down your throat. I need you to _fuck me hard_ with those fingers, until I come screaming. I want you to swallow. And _I need_ you to _keep fucking me hard_ until I come dry or until I _beg you_ to stop.” Dorian flushes and licks his lips, but holds that flickering-burning gray gaze. It’s not remotely innocent, anymore. “Whether or not you actually _do stop_ is . . . is a choice I leave to you. I _want_ you to surprise me.”

 

Bull smiles. Pulls off of Dorian’s cock and unreservedly _beams_.

 

“Perhaps, in time . . . when we’re a bit more familiar with each other, we can experiment with consent-play and forced-orgasms, but for now . . . when you need to stop, say _katoh_ , and I’ll stop. No questions asked.”

 

“Stop?” Dorian frowns. “You don’t mean . . . for _keeps_?”

 

Bull’s beam turns back into a smile, calm and reassuring. “Not if you don’t want me to, Dorian, no.”

 

“How . . . how will you know the difference?”

 

Bull winks, rakish but still comforting, somehow. It makes Dorian glad that at least _one of them_ seems to know what the hell he’s doing. “I’m good at reading people.”

 

And before Dorian can ask another insipid, amateur question, Bull is swooping down on his cock with a forceful suck and a rumbling hum. Between that and the sheer surprise of it, Dorian can only arch up into the consuming contact as he gives a wavering yell. The fingers that’d so cruelly paused at his perineum, move once more, pushing between his cheeks to press, firm and testing, against his tight, pulsing-throbbing entrance.

 

For minutes or hours or eons, Bull multitasks taking Dorian apart with his mouth and fingers. Licking and laving, teasing and torturing, nipping and nuzzling, sucking and swallowing him down. Stroking and circling, feinting and withdrawing and, finally, thrusting in briefly and shallowly, though daring a bit further on each successive thrust, and a bit harder. Dorian is clenching tight and bearing down on Bull’s fingers, grinding himself forward and back between the overwhelming stimuli, beyond begging and reduced to desperate, primal cries.

 

He's inundated with pleasure and pain, fuller than he’s ever been, and still desperate for more. For harder, faster, deeper, _more_. And yet, he’s almost grateful it’s not Bull’s cock stretching him open and taking him so completely because he’d surely lose his mind from the intensity. From the getting and _having_ of all the things he’s been wanting, and didn’t even know he needed.

 

Surely. . . .

 

Dorian’s body goes rigid as Bull brushes, then applies direct and increasing pressure on his prostate, twisting his fingers even as he grinds them harder and deeper into Dorian’s greedy, overwhelmed body.

 

“Buh—Buh—” Dorian manages to gasp out, and Bull’s smug hum rumbles around Dorian’s cock, just as Bull slides slowly off it, dragging his teeth down every sensitive centimeter of Dorian’s tender flesh like a dire promise or a loving threat.

 

“OHHHHHHH!” Dorian exclaims, soft and breathless as his body simply _surrenders_. At last, and for the first time ever, since his entry into the sexual arena at the age of fifteen. He doesn’t simply come, he lets go utterly, abandons his sense and reason, and simply lets pleasure like burning madness sweep away his sense and sense of _self_. He gives the care of Dorian A. Pavus—what’s left of him—over to James Bull for safe-keeping, and lets himself rise and fall, wax and wane, ebb and flow with ecstasy so keen it’s agony, and joy so great, that it’s anguish, because it will, sooner or later, end.

 

Through it all, on a level that’s all amygdala and gut-instinct, Dorian is aware of Bull easing him through the aftershocks of his release, then shifting and arranging him so that he’s prone on his side, on the Burberry. He’s aware of something chilly, but puffy-soft, wrapping around him, followed by the strongest, safest arms he’s ever known. His entire body relaxes in one fell swoop, in a way it hasn’t since he was very small and knew nothing of the world or its many cruelties. A dense, warm, hard-soft body curls around his own, pulling him back against it, tight and possessive.

 

There’s a comforting rumbling in his ear, followed by a lingering kiss to his ear lobe, his temple, his jaw, then another slow rumble and a sigh. Dorian tries to collect himself, to string together a thought—to twitch his heavy eyelids open just a bit—but that doesn’t seem likely to be happening any time soon. Consciousness is receding like a wave on the back of a swift tide.

 

“ _Bull_. . . ?” he mumbles blearily. For the moment, it’s a nonsense-syllable with no immediate meaning or association—apologetic and exhausted—but it’s the only thing Dorian is capable of expressing. He can’t _quite_ remember what it signifies, as yet, but he knows he _means it_ with his entire being. “Bull.”

 

“That’s right, Dorian. You did _real_ good for me. Even _better_ than I imagined you would.” This rumble is softer, more like affectionate puffs of air on Dorian’s nape than actual sounds, but it’s easier to parce, somehow. Fond and proud and awed. “Get some rest, Professor. You’re gonna need it for later.”

 

And that’s such sound advice, Dorian obeys the rumble without question or hesitation, just a soft, sated, trusting hum.

 

#

 

When Dorian opens his eyes with a yawn, feeling more rested than he has in some time, those eyes are skewered by pale, but aggressive sunlight.

 

He swears, throwing his arm over his eyes with a petulant groan. He almost never forgets to close his drapes against the sunrise—morning person that he is certainly _not_ —and rolls away from the source of the sunlight.

 

He then notices that his bed feels less like his bed and more like a concrete floor beneath a rather unhelpful layer of warm cloth.

 

 _What on Ear_ —

 

Dorian doesn’t even finish the though before it all comes back to him with the velocity and mass of Mercury, and his eyes fly open as he bolts upright. Blinking in the hazy-bright sunlight illuminating the bare cellar, the first thing he sees is a large figure standing with its back to him, arms akimbo like Superman—a spanner clenched in one big mitt and a screwdriver in the other—and head tipped up and to the left as he stares at the ancient, gargantuan furnace.

 

The ancient, gargantuan furnace from which cheerful clanking is emerging at regular, non-urgent intervals. Not to mention . . . perceptible _heat_ , as well.

 

 _Huh. He fixed it_ , Dorian thinks, blinking again and shaking his head. He looks down at himself as a big, blue coat slithers slowly down into his lap. His _bare_ lap.

 

Flushing for a laundry-list of reasons that begins with his memories of the previous night and ends with his morning hard-on, which the delicious twinge in his sore arse only exacerbates, Dorian buries his face in his warm hands and laughs quietly.

 

“Morning, sunshine.”

 

“Er . . . good morning.” Dorian tries to stop giggling, but that only makes it worse. Even as he all but wheezes, the giggles still take every opportunity to escape. “So, I . . . swooned on you, after . . . _after_. That was _terribly_ rude and unfair of me, and I . . . apologize. . . .”

 

“It was _flattering as fuck_ , is what it was! I fucked you unconscious without even using my _dick!_ That’s a _first_ , for me!”

 

 _That_ preening admission doesn’t help the giggling _at all_. Between the uncontrolled mirth, the working furnace, and the blushing, Dorian’s face feels hot and ridiculous. His whole _body_ feels hot and ridiculous. But in an optimistic, effervescent way he’s never experienced before.

 

“Wow. _Someone_ woke up on the right side of the cellar, this morning,” Bull notes easily and from close by. A moment later, Dorian senses the other man kneeling in front of him patiently, his right knee just brushing Dorian’s left calf. For some reason, that sends Dorian off to the races at speed for several minutes. It’s only when his laughter has turned into sporadic, hiccup-y giggles and he’s wiped the tears from his face, that he finally peers up at Bull. The other man is smiling wryly but fondly, and twirling the screwdriver like it’s a baton. “Should I . . . be flattered? Or are you _always_ this chipper in the morning?”

 

Dorian’s mouth drops open and his hands cover it for a few moments, his eyes gone wide. He doesn’t know Bull well, yet—or at all, truth be told and devil be shamed—but he trusts his gut-feelings about the man. That easy tone and those easy words are a near-perfect game-face that covers hope that’s too fierce to be anxiety, but too uncertain to be the towering confidence Bull can assume like well-worn armor.

 

It is, indeed, _nearly_ chink-free armor. A _nearly_ perfect game-face. And Dorian sees past them partially by luck and partially by Bull’s allowance.

 

Bull is _giving him_ this unexpected vulnerability and leaving it to Dorian to respond however he wills.

 

Dorian’s hands fall away from his now-closed mouth, and it drops open again. But words don’t put in an appearance for so long, Bull’s wry, but somewhat open face begins to harden and close off.

 

“Well, you’ll just have to stick around and _find out_ , won’t you?” Dorian blurts out nervously, and Bull’s the one to blink, this time, confused and wary.

 

“Uh . . . not following you, Professor. . . .”

 

Dorian sniffs and clutches Bull’s coat to him like his _own_ armor, but holds that gaze steadily, willing and wanting and _wishing_ for Bull to see in his eyes all the things that it’s _far_ too soon to say, regardless of whether Dorian actually feels them.

 

“If you wish to know my temperament of a morning, you’ll just have to _invest_ in some nights and mornings spent doing hands-on research and observation. Then average it out for yourself. I may be cheap,” Dorian adds with flippant hauteur, “But I’m _rarely easy_.”

 

Bull’s smile is slow, but widens quickly into a grin. Then into that unreserved _beam_ from the night before. It makes Dorian _dismayingly_ soft in some places— _heart-related_ places—and enthusiastically _hard_ in others.

 

“You’re lucky I like ‘em snooty, snarky, and high-maintenance, Professor . . . ‘cause you’re, like, the jackpot for all three.”

 

“I believe the proper term is, _triple-threat_ ,” Dorian huffs loftily, but tipping his face up toward Bull’s when the other man leans in for a slow, soft kiss. It doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon, Bull’s big hands are clamped on Dorian’s waist and Dorian’s arms are flung tight around Bull’s neck.

 

 _Soon_ , Bull snatches his puffy, blue coat out of Dorian’s lap and bears them down to the Burberry-shielded concrete, shuffling to kneel, then lay between Dorian’s spread legs. He bears his weight up with easy strength on one thick arm, pushing his massive, denim-covered erection against Dorian’s bare one. The friction is blissful torture.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Professor,” Bull pants as his thrusts gain both power and speed. “What you _do_ to me. . . .”

 

“If I beg prettily enough, will you fuck me right here and now, Bull?” Dorian asks, wanton and beyond all guile or pretense of propriety. Beyond his own _self-preservation_. Bull groans, low and ragged, his body pinning Dorian’s _hard_ for long, silent moments. Then he’s groaning and thrusting again, with more intensity but less rhythm.

 

“Keep that up and I just might try, slick bedamned,” he growls, but his thrusts slow and gentle markedly, and he drops a tender peck on the corner of Dorian’s mouth. It turns into a longer, sweeter, more thorough kiss that leaves Dorian breathless and yearning.

 

“I won’t say _katoh_ , if you really want to try, Bull. _I_ . . . really want you to try,” Dorian corrects with raw humility. Bull groans almost weakly, and shudders deep and long.

 

“If you ask me to, I _would_ hurt you, Dorian. So, so beautifully, and in _any_ way you ask of me,” he murmurs on Dorian’s cheek with a small sigh. Then he sits up just enough to look Dorian in the eye, his face grim and intent. “But I will _never_ harm you. Not _even_ if you beg. And shoving _my_ dick in you without lube and proper prep would be . . . harmful. And damaging. Those are two things I _never_ want to be to you.”

 

Tangling his fingers in the hair at Bull’s nape, Dorian swallows around his trip-hammering heart and leans up to steal a quick, but tender kiss.

 

“Alright, then,” he says in an awkward, but pleased tone. “Frottage, it is, I suppose. I hope you aren’t too . . . put-out, or disappointed.”

 

Bull grins and waggles his eyebrows. “Humping your fine-ass body isn’t exactly some second-rate consolation-prize, y’know?” With an aggressive, driving thrust that makes Dorian’s eyes roll back into his head, Bull resumes pistoning his hips and groin down against Dorian’s with determination and focus that more than supports that statement.

 

And thus, very shortly thereafter, the cellar is filled with heat— _lots_ of heat . . . really quite _alarming_ heat—and sunlight, hissed swears and bitten-off blasphemy and, finally, urgent cries, gruff grunts, and—

 

“Bull . . . oh, _Bull_. . . !”

 

“Ah, _fuck, Dorian_!”

 

—the very unwelcome flare of fluorescent light overhead, startling and disorienting, and the barely audible creak of the cellar door.

 

“. . . quite grateful your friend stopped by to fix the furnace, Mr. Lavellan—such _awful_ clanking, so early!—but now, it’s _far_ too hot!” an older woman’s querulous voice declares as unhurried footsteps start down the stairs. _Familiar_ footsteps . . . followed by an equally familiar voice.

 

“Yes, er, it _is_ a bit balmy in here, Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Asa agrees on the back of a long yawn, the footsteps pausing as the yawn reaches a noisy crescendo. Dorian freezes, eyes flying open even as Bull obliviously continues to grunt and thrust and rut his way toward a release that already seems to pain him. His face is a sweaty, intense rictus above Dorian’s, his cock huge and hot and damp against Dorian’s. “I’m surprised it took this long to get going, since he tinkered with it last night.”

 

“Well! _That_ explains it!” Agnes Cavanaugh decides primly, her lighter, mincing footsteps following Asa’s down the stairs once more. Dorian is flapping and flailing at Bull’s big, tense arms, but the other man doesn’t even notice. And he’s _impossible_ to budge or shove away. All Dorian can do is close his eyes, curse his luck, and wait for the metaphoric excrement to hit the figurative rotating blades. “It must’ve been _him_ who left the cellar door open and unlocked, and the light on like electricity’s free! Hmph! You young people! That light would _still_ be on and the door swinging in the breeze, if I hadn’t— _oh, good Heavens! Mr. Pavus!_ ”

 

_“Bull! Dorian!”_

 

“Oh, for the love of—”

 

“Fuck, _Doooooorian_. . . !”

 

“Oh, gracious _me_ —!”

 

“Mrs. Cavanaugh? _Mrs. Cavanaugh!_ ”

 

“God _damn_ , baby . . . _unh_ , so fuckin’ _goooooood_. . . .”

 

“Buh- _loody_ hell, she’s fainted . . . or possibly had a stroke . . . Mrs. Cavanaugh— _Agnes_? _Don’t go toward the light, Agnes! It’s not your time!_ ”

 

Then . . . silence, but for the sounds of deep panting, and a frantic hand patting a slack face. Nothing is said for the better part of a minute, until:

 

“How’d’ya like _that_? I shot fucking _gray-matter,_ and I’m _still_ rock-hard and ready to go! You’re a _keeper_ , Professor!”

 

“Merciful Lord . . . kill. Me. _Now_.”

 

_“You have unfinished work on this plane, Agnes! Turn away from the light!”_

 

“ _Asa?_ Uh . . . hey, guy. You, uh . . . you’re bitch-slapping an unconscious old lady. You know that, right?”

 

_“Do not go gentle into that good night, sweet spirit!”_

 

“I don’t know whether I’m more mortified, incredulous, or simply through with the lot of you. Ugh. _Get off_ , Bull.”

 

“A little late for _that_ , Professor. . . .”

 

“You’re heavy and sticky and _sweaty_. And not _remotely_ clever. Get. _Off_.”

 

“Like I said, I already— _OW_! It was just a joke! You didn’t have to pinch me!”

 

“Seamus. . . ? Seamus, is that . . . _you_ , love?”

 

“Oh, _thank goodness_ , she’s coming ‘round! _Agnes, are you alright_?”

 

“Oh, me . . . _do_ stop _shouting_ , Seamus-dear . . . I’ve had such a frightful dream! There was a heat-wave, and . . . and there were _homosexuals_ canoodling in the cellar, and . . . oh, dear! _Mr. Lavellan?_ Dear me, I thought you were _Seamus_ for a moment! How silly of me! Oh, but I feel so woozy!”

 

“Ha! She called you a _homosexual_ , Professor! And a _canoodling_ one, at that. Classic! Not _nearly_ descriptive enough, but _classic_! Gotta love old-people!”

 

“Keep your voice down, you great brute, before she really _does_ have a stroke!”

 

“Er . . . homosexuals? _Canoodling_ , you say? What an, er, odd dream to have, Agnes! Must be the heat. Yes. So, let’s, erm, get you out of this boiling cellar and back to your flat, right? And I’ll put the kettle on for tea and sort you out a cold compress.”

 

“Oh, tea sounds lovely! You’ll stay for a cuppa, won’t you?”

 

“Er. . . .”

 

“Yes . . . and I can tell you _all_ about my granddaughter, Maeve! Such a lovely, sweet girl! The kind that’d settle even a gad-about young bachelor like yourself into a steady family-man!”

 

“Really? She’d have to be, erm, _very_ special, indeed, to do so, Agnes. . . .”

 

“Heh, _special_ , meaning she’d have to have a _huge_ dick Asa can ride like a sassy little cowgirl.”

 

“ _Please_ don’t make me ponder the size of my best friend’s dick _or_ how his boyfriend uses it.”

 

“Aw, don’t be jealous, you big, ol’ size-queen. _My_ dick’s _way huger_.”

 

“Bully for you. Have you _no_ concept of an indoor-voice?”

 

“Probably not. Doesn’t matter. Our audience is making tracks. Now, where were we. . . ?”

 

“A zoo. This place is a bloody _zoo_. And _no one’s_ controlling the monkeys. No one. . . .”

 

“Eh, you’re more of a _tiger_ than a monkey, Professor. And _I’m_ a fucking _dragon_ : huge, hot, and horny! _Unh_!”

 

“That settles it, then. I’m done. Far more done with all of you, than I am mortified or incredulous. And exhibitionism is _not_ one of my kinks. So, kindly _refrain_ from humping me until we’re somewhere marginally more private.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Bull—”

 

“Nothin’ doin’, until and unless I hear a big, loud _katoh_.”

 

In the weighty pause that follows, Asa continues to coo at a dazed and rambling Agnes Cavanaugh as they slowly, carefully reach the top of the stairs. _Bull_ continues to grind and nuzzle and murmur his appreciation of Dorian’s body, while building up a rhythmic series of slow, steady thrusts. And Dorian. . . .

 

. . . grumbles and glares, huffs and sniffs. Then writhes and clings. But he never _does_ manage a _katoh_ . . . big, loud, or otherwise.

 

Though, almost ten minutes after Asa has helped their still disoriented neighbor out of the cellar—while skillfully keeping her gaze averted from the heated, homosexual canoodling behind her—Dorian lets out a ringing, helpless yell of completion . . . raw, sated, and unmistakably sexual.

 

Two floors away, in her sweltering flat, Agnes Cavanaugh starts and nearly drops her tremoring cup of chamomile. Asa, sitting across from the shaken older woman at her insistence, with his own cup of chamomile, sips his tea and does not comment, other than to ask to hear more about Agnes’s granddaughter.

 

Eventually, Bull gets around to adjusting the furnace to a more moderate and consistent temperature than it’s ever been before. Then he slowly adjusts _Dorian_ to a warmer and kinder temperature than _he’s_ ever been before. Both adjustments rather quickly become a new and pleasant normal. And everyone in the block is, more or less, content for the rest of their time in residence.

 

There are, of course, still nights of temperamental frigidity—nights when the determined attention of an _expert_ handyman is the only remedy _for_ said reversion and coldness—even in the _happiest_ happily ever after. Of course, there are. But even on the iciest-cold nights of grudging and iffy heat-output, Bull _always_ manages to ward off that rare chill before it settles. And once he _gets_ the heat going again, he keeps it turned decidedly _up_.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> stitchcasual’s prompt: _how about someone just waking up from an accidental nap on someone else, all sleepy and cute and apologetic. Bonus points for missing an important engagement but not caring . . . adoribull (I'm weak for that content :)_
> 
> Thanks especially to stitchcasual and Hotot for the amazing and detailed critiques on a bunch of passages. Without you guys, this fic would suck waaaaaaay harder. Literally ninety-nine point three eight seven five percent of the non-suck is thanks to you guys. But the rest is aaaaaaaall _me_.  
>  ::preens::
> 
> [Tumble for me](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)?


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